


Treasured Songbird

by GilliganGoodfellow



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gilligan writes a sex scene and disaster ensues, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Massage, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26672071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilliganGoodfellow/pseuds/GilliganGoodfellow
Summary: After spotting his father in the audience, Jaskier loses his confidence during a bard compeititon.Afterwards, Geralt takes it upon himself to remind Jaskier of how special he is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 365





	Treasured Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet and innocent Gilligan did another sex scene. She totally blames reading BawdyBean's fics! ! ! <3 <3
> 
> (Also, I shamelessly stole the "alternative" use of igni from them. Sorry not sorry)

Valdo Marx, winner of the competition, stands in the corner of the small reception room, surrounded by a gaggle of adoring fans hanging off his every overinflated word. 

“Why yes, well it was a little song I wrote for a gorgeous redhead in Novigrad. What better muse than the heart’s desire after all.”

Jaskier sighs, able to see the laughing faces and mocking eyes aimed at him even with his back turned. 

Part of him aches to join the conversation, to throw some witty retort at Valdo Marx. But it is a small part, drowned out by the exhaustion and brain fog that he has fallen into.

He picks up a plate, and concentrates on picking off bits of the buffet. 

Jaskier remembers standing on the stage, but it doesn’t feel like his memory. It feels like he is watching someone else, a stranger in his clothes and wearing his face, confident if nervous right until he looks into the audience...and sees Viscount Reginald Pankratz sitting with the lords. 

His father. 

His own fucking father is watching.

And suddenly this isn’t about enjoying the competition and hoping to win. This isn’t about testing his skills against his peers. This isn’t about putting Valdo Marx in his place. 

This is about all the times he has been compared to his cousin Ferrant and found wanting. 

This was about all the times his father has called him a disappointment. 

This is about a childhood without pride, or love. 

Every inch of his security falls away, and Jaskier doesn’t just want to win this competition. Jaskier _needs_ to win this competition. 

He _has_ to…prove himself.

But are his songs good enough? Did he practice enough?

 _Why_ is his father here? Probably to impress some lord he is hoping to start a business arrangement with. 

Did he _know_ that Jaskier was competing? No, he looks...surprised. And...bland. 

Disappointed. 

Embarrassed. 

Jaskier feels cold. 

Jaskier remembers his heart stopping. He remembers swallowing. He picks up the lute but, how does he hold it again? How...he swallows. Swallows again. Closes his eyes. His father’s not there, pretend he’s not there. 

He opens his eyes again, and out of the corner he sees Valdo Marx whispering to Callonetta. She rolls her eyes, and hits his shoulder. 

Jaskier excuses himself to the judging panel, and asks for some water. It is provided quickly and he drinks his fill, putting the mug on the floor and nodding. 

He starts to play, he thinks. He...no that’s not the right cord you idiot. Don’t sing, don’t trust your voice. He can’t breathe much less sing.

He feels so cold. 

He plays one of his songs without the words, and with the wrong cord in the first verse, and then runs off of the stage.

_He doesn’t see the hooded figure at the back of his hall, the figure who lowers his head, and leaves._

Now, in the reception room, Jaskier is still trembling, his eyes closing as Callonetta sweeps into the spot beside him.

“Quite the performance today.”

Jaskier shrugs. 

“Want some advice?” Callonetta doesn’t wait for an answer as she rests her hand on his chest, patting it twice. 

“Out there, on that stage, _you_ are the witcher in your ballads. And your monsters are the three judges. So you need to focus and plan. Same as your White Wolf would for a battle.” 

Jaskier looks at the ground, thinking.

“Valdo knew who the judges were ahead of the competition. He asked around about their tastes, and chose a song set likely to appeal to all three. So when he went on stage, he was confident that they would enjoy his performance. So nothing to worry about. And...he won.”

Jaskier nods. 

“I did the same. And...second place.”

_Jaskier had done the same._

“It wasn’t…” Jaskier bites his bottom lip, and nods. “Thanks. I’ll remember for next time.”

“Then I look forward to the formidable opponent that I know you can be.” She winks, and returns to her previous social group.

“Priscilla.”

She turns, looking at him. 

“Well done. You deserved to _win_ , with that performance. Certainly over Valdo.”

“You too, Julian.” She smiles, nodding her thanks before continuing on.

Sighing, Jaskier puts down the plate of untouched food, and leaves the reception.

* * *

The bard walks towards the tavern where he and Geralt are staying, his lute held against his back by its strap. 

_His eyes are fixed on the ground where he is putting his feet, so he doesn’t see the figure looking quickly through the window of their tavern room, before closing the curtain._

Jaskier enters the tavern room to find a shirtless Geralt sitting by the small fireplace, sorting through oils and potions, and slowly putting some bottles to one side on a small tray. 

Without a word, Jaskier takes off his boots, trousers and doublet, folding his clothes onto a chair before, in his smallclothes and shirt, he claps his hands and turns to face Geralt. “Good hunting?”

“Short hunting.” Geralt says, picking up another oil bottle and sorting it to one side. “The _beast_ turned out to be a pack of wild dogs. Not even witcher work.”

“But, a coin is a coin.” Jaskier smiles, stepping forward and picking up one of the bottles. A massage oil. 

“Ah? Subtle my dear Witcher. Dogs worked up an appetite in my dear Wolf, did they?”

Geralt hums, and puts another oil to one side. “No.”

He sorts the unwanted potions and oils back into their various bags before lifting the tray with his selection and moving it to the bedside table.

Sighing, Jaskier nods and opens the bottle in his hands, smelling the contents and smiling as he slowly pours it. Putting the bottle on the table, he rubs his hands together to warm the oil against his skin as he looks at Geralt. “Lay down then.”

But Geralt shakes his head, expression calm as he steps forward and takes each of Jaskier’s oiled hands in his own. 

“Take your clothes off?”

“Oh?” Jaskier smirks, and slowly does as he is instructed, making a show of folding the shirt against his chest and laying it on top of his doublet and trousers. Now his smallclothes, left on the floor by his feet as he looks back at Geralt, now naked.

The witcher’s expression hasn’t changed. 

That same calm warmth.

Silently, Geralt nods and takes Jaskier’s hands again and slowly walks backwards, guiding him to the bed before turning so that Jaskier is sat down between him and the mattress. 

Kneeling in front of Jaskier, Geralt rests his hands on Jaskier’s naked knees and looks up at him. “You’re trembling.”

“I’m fine.”

_He’s cold. But the room is warm._

“Promise, Jaskier?”

“Yes.”

“Lay down on your front.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt, then he looks at the oils, the oils that Jaskier uses when Geralt returns from a contract. When Jaskier helps him to clean, helps him to tend to wounds, and then uses the oils to help his muscles and mind to relax. 

_Jaskier_ gives _Geralt_ what he needs after a contract.

_What does Geralt need tonight?_

Tonight, Geralt stands with his hands now rested on Jaskier’s shoulders and slowly, gently pushes him down onto the bed, on his front. The hands slide to his arms, bringing them up to rest around the pillow, and then they slide down his body, making Jaskier sigh and flinch in places. At his feet, Geralt runs his finger in a circle on each ankle, before taking hold of the blanket pooled at the foot of the bed and pulling it up to cover Jaskier up to his waist.

His finger traces up the bard’s spine, and Jaskier feels his mind react, a sensation like when rain falls against the skin, only instead it is against his thoughts, and warm rather than cold. Welcome. 

Geralt looks into his eyes, perhaps seeing there the vulnerability and confusion that Jaskier is feeling right now. 

“I want to look after you tonight.” Geralt says, quietly. “Please.”

Jaskier nods, and licks his lips. “Yes.”

With a smile, Geralt returns his hand to Jaskier’s back, stroking down vertebrate by vertebrate by vertebrate. 

“Is there anywhere you don’t want me to touch?”

“Sides.”

Geralt nods, understanding. He hates being touched there too. “And anywhere you _do_ want me?”

Jaskier breaks eye contact. “I don’t know.”

Geralt hushes him, and brings his finger up to the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing a series of circles there. The bard moans in response, turning his face into the pillow, and Geralt chuckles under his breath. This is one of his favourites too. 

He reaches for more of the oil, rubbing it into his hands and resting them on Jaskier’s back. There, he moves them around in a tender series of circles that avoid touching the Bard’s sides as he evenly spreads the oil across his back and then, after adding more oil to his hands, running them along the back of each arm. 

“Is this alright?”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper. “But why…”

“I want to look after you.”

“Why?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

The bard doesn’t answer.

Returning to Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt cups each of them, thumbs working shapes against the skin on the back of the shoulder, and both hands moving to massage fingers over any spots of tension that his probing finds. Then the thumbs move to the back of Jaskier’s neck, the movements there eliciting a deep exhale from the bard as he relaxes into the pillow, breathing deeply as Geralt begins to knead his way down Jaskier’s back to his waist, stopping to again concentrate on any tension found on the way. 

By the smell, Jaskier can tell that Geralt has switched to another oil, this one dropped directly onto his back in gentle droplets before being spread around with a feather light touch. 

Geralt sighs, his palms now resting still against Jaskier’s back. “Tell me if it causes you pain?”

“If what...” 

And heat, warmth, slowly spreads across his back and down to Jaskier’s very core. He thinks he can feel it along every nerve and muscle, coiling at the base of his spine and deeper. His legs tremble slightly, and his exhale is more of a shudder. 

“Jaskier?”

“Don’t stop.”

Geralt nods, and applies more oil to his hands, heating it again with more igni as it runs across Jaskier’s skin. He then runs along the back of Jaskier’s arms, thumb and index finger taking the time to run their heated touch slowly along each of the bard’s digits on each hand.

“I’m going to turn you on your back now.”

Jaskier nods, too far gone to offer any physical aid as Geralt slowly turns him over, fingers tracing the edges and flaps of each ear, the witcher enjoying the sight of Jaskier’s tension and sadness easing from his face, replaced by serenity. 

Geralt massages the front of Jaskier’s shoulders before tracing fingers along his chest and stomach, and the bard flinches, and smiles as the Witcher moves back up, cupping a hand around the back of Jaskier’s head. 

“Lower?” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier looks at the oils, and nods.

“Say it?”

“Yes.” He looks at the witcher. “Touch me, please.”

This is more familiar, as Geralt’s hand moves the blanket down and then, fresh oil applied, takes hold of Jaskier. But it’s new too. Because there’s no harshness or urgency tonight. Geralt isn’t chasing a desperate release from the anger of his day, and Jaskier is not looking for a high. The build up of pleasure is slow, gentle. Comforting. 

It spreads through him in a sensation, causing his arms to twitch. And then his entire body follows, trembling as the release comes through with the same tender slowness as the build up.

More oil, and Geralt strokes a hand up and down Jaskier’s chest. “Inside?”

Jaskier nods. 

“Words.”

“Yes. I want you inside of me.”

“I love you.” Geralt kisses him, then moves down. 

Jaskier can’t help the moan as The Witcher prepares him, eyes closed and face turned to the side against the pillow, tongue relishing Geralt’s taste on his lips. His fingers fidget, and he reaches down with one hand to take Geralt’s own. An anchor as he slowly tries to float away. 

He feels like this is everything. A moment of time with no clear beginning or end. Just a constant. 

The constant as Geralt enters him, his whole body now resting on Jaskier’s abdomen and chest, their lips meeting again. Every part of Jaskier feels alive, warm, and loved as they move together in one gentle motion back and forth. Jaskier can feel Geralt thrust against a mysterious bundle of sensitivity deep inside of him.

They wrap their arms around each other as they release, Jaskier gasping, and Geralt groaning. And the bard is filled with warmth again.

Later they lay side by side, facing each other, and Geralt reaches up to trace the side of Jaskier’s face. 

“Never forget how special you are.” Geralt whispers. “How unique and treasured you are. You leave every place you walk into better than how you found it. You love everyone you meet.”

Jaskier shakes his head, but Geralt hushes him, kissing his eyes, his cheeks. 

“Treasured.” He whispers into the bard’s ear, before kissing the lobe. “Special. And losing your competition today won’t change that.” 

"How?"

Geralt smiles. “Even if you never win one, it doesn’t matter, bard, because you are not defined by competitions. You are this.”

He rests a hand over Jaskier’s heart, and catches each tear on his face with a kiss.

Jaskier lets Geralt pull him in to rest with his head pillowed on the Witcher’s chest, and slips into sleep.

* * *

Jaskier remembers standing on the stage, confident if nervous. And he looks into the audience...and sees Geralt watching.

Jaskier smiles, and performs his pieces to an applauding audience, and high points from the judges.

Later, after congratulating Callonetta on her win, he sits with Geralt in the corner of the hall, and smiles as he looks down at his second place certificate.

“Well done.” Geralt says.

And there it is again. The warmth.


End file.
